He lived off Wabash in the South Loop in a two-story Painted Lady with flower boxes at the windows. I rang the bell and the bright red door opened seconds later, revealing a chiseled Adonis with dark, curly hair and sleepy eyes the color of Chinese jade. There was a deep, healed-over scar on his dimpled chin, but that only made him look all the more rugged and capable, like he could start a fire without matches or wrestle an alligator with his bare hands. His eyes quickly scanned over me, and his easy smile revealed a legion of pearly white teeth, perfectly aligned.

“My day’s looking up,” he said, his gorgeous eyes latching onto mine and lingering there.

Friendly, I thought, standing there all tall and athletic too. For a half second, I forgot why I was there. “Vincent Darby?”

He was dressed in workout clothes, his hair damp with sweat, the ends of it curling up at the nape of his neck in cute, little angel ringlets. He dried long, tapered fingers on a small terry towel, eyed me quizzically, his smile positively lethal. “That’s me.”

I held up his business card, the one Ganz had given me. “Sterling Associates?”

I could see the wheels turning. He was likely wondering how I got to his front door from the information on the card, which offered nothing more than his name, place of business, and work number. “That’s right.”

I smiled broadly, knowing that his smile was not going to be long-lived. I took one final appreciative look, then waded in. “You handed these cards out at Tim Ayers’s party.” I put the card away, but plucked one of mine out of a pocket and handed it to him. “Cass Raines,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Tim, if you have the time?”

Like the sky after a storm cloud passes in front of the sun, Darby’s Hollywood smile dimmed, then died. For a nanosecond, something else flickered across his flawless face, something I couldn’t immediately put a finger on. Ganz mentioned that something about the man appeared rough and unpolished. For a split second, I could almost see it, but then whatever it was blew away.

“Private detective?” He ran the towel along the back of his neck to dry the sweat, and then ran it across his face and arms. “Sorry. You caught me at the end of a workout. What’s this about?”

I stepped up to the top step, so we could be, more or less, eye to eye. “You were at a party Tim threw. You handed out your card. How were you two connected?” He read my card again, but didn’t answer. “You two argued. Mind if I ask what about?”